


The Dream We Crave

by MissDragonSpire



Category: Original Work, The Void RP, Working Week AU
Genre: And learning things about each other along the way, Character Study, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Romance, Ship-fic, Two lovers being awkward beans, candlelight dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDragonSpire/pseuds/MissDragonSpire
Summary: Delli knows a few things about life. Being on the road for most of her career, she's bound to pick up knowledge along the way. Her job is interesting like that.When she meets someone with a job not nearly as fun - or freeing - and starts to grow close to him, she starts to recognize she doesn't know everything. Not even close.She would like to understand.(Craig belongs to TheOtter99, who happily agreed to a ship-fic between our babies)
Relationships: Craig/Delli Ganger (OCs)
Kudos: 2





	The Dream We Crave

As a real person, as someone who spent the best years on the road, Delli knew a few things about life. And she knew about some of the stuff that came along with life, like family and romance.

Of course, if she made common knowledge of her ragged romance novels as the gateway to her experiences, more than a few wagging fingers would be put her way.

Packed in spades wherever her van could contain them, squeezed into every corner and cranny and crevice, her stories comforted. They were the stimulant to the blistering, the stretching line, summer road. She read when she could, going so far as to multitask her eyes; glance to what was in front of her, glimpse into the unfolding tale.

Tales of blissful meetings.

Of sparks of real human connection.

Of love.

Companionship.

In no way that any candy wrapper, any firecracker in July, could impersonate or capture, the yellowed pages crackled, overripe of fondness and age. They made her sleeping nook above the harsh green glows of the monitors feel almost a proper house. As long as there was this, from where came the harm?

And so her personal life kept as her own. Those who harassed were welcome to choke on her knuckles.

A new day. And elsewhere, and of unfamiliar faces. In an apartment hall she lurked, thunder colliding outside the window, water pooling at her boots. Taken to the one large tile, large enough to stand in like she was a piece to a god's grand chess game, she shivered.

Early or late?

The stark white of this one door burned her eyeballs, staring at it. Numbers of copper, or brass, marked the correct apartment. Her hand rotated, clenching like a perished spider, and readying to knock.

The light bulbs flickered, and one shot out. Permanently squatting in the parking lot, Delli's van was ten feet from the lobby (the landlady seemed not to care, so long as the common trouble was kept to zilch). _Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat_ went the water at the window, small and sudden like the chortles of an infant. Nature at play. The rain could be laughter in nature's language; it laughed at her today. A plain tank top plastered to herself, she flung droplets off herself.

The cold must have sopped up the answer. Craig said either six fifteen-four or seven eighty-five.

It was a chance meeting, like the usual song and dance - or rhythm and ink - of her books, unless the aftermaths of battles didn't count in that trope. Jackalope-wendigo space-time beasts were the worst, and this last one could heck off after that bite and the proximity entrapment inconvenience that accompanied. Though, the pinch of the Good Samaritan trope could have helped make for a great, epic ballad one day. Point was, Craig helped look after her in the days after the bite, and every day since started a friendly bond.

Chance meetings, or the childhood friends; those were the best. In the longest nights, as she would listen to the patter of hail on the roof, the chirp of crickets outside the windshield, she would wonder if these stories really captured what love was like. Not always did literature describe things correctly (nobody can turn "beet red!"). This question had a reason to be thought. Some had said love, at its core, was torture, nonstop torment of your emotions that made the heart try to shatter out of your chest. And, the prognosis, it was not for everyone.

At first, this poetic touch of word choice went over Delli's head, and she had to be talked down that, no, love is not a viral disease that causes spontaneous combustion of vital organs.

Risky business, it meant. The gamble of souls seeking good company, and easily, terribly easily, could it face up sour. 

In plain speak, the perilous adventure of a lifetime.

Craig was the start of that adventure. From the day she caught whisper from his lips calling her a "gorgeous badass", she felt not alone. Discouragement no longer had a place in her brain. It made all kinds of sense to ask him out.

But it was late. Eight thirty-five, said the foggy watch?

No, wait, that was a six. Six thirty-five. 

When did they agree on? 

Craig would have to come home first. As was the way of humans, a half or a full hour to come home. Plus the half dozen minutes to change into formal clothes. Then another hour; cooking or ordering food, which would have to be driven here. Craig said he wanted to cook, though. So a couple hours no matter what. Rushing him would be rude.

She could always go back to the van and dry off. Salvage her clothes- no, that wouldn't work. Outta the van, into the van, out again. That's three times turned wet. Now, if she waited for the storm to stop, she could fetch her towels- no! Waiting couldn't work. Who had the absurdity to rely on weather? Weather was a god, and all the gods mocked her existence in some way or another, and at any time of her short life. And it was six thirty-seven, she was late, she was super late, Craig gave up and threw out the meal, oh no!

Her knuckles flew, rapped on the door.

Wait no she wasn't decent she was wet, oh my gods-

"Um... Delli?"

Delli flinched.

And Craig was there. Handsome, beanpole Craig who climbed the last step, minding the puddles that Delli had made on her own way up. Umbrella propped upright by his craned head and raised shoulder, he studied her like a curious child holding a grasshopper. He mastered his own style of comfortable formal, including the dress shirt buttoned all but the three from the apex. The gap allowed a glance of skin somehow paler than his face that favored the indoors. Two paper grocery bags left a trail ending in him.

Delli cleared her throat and stuck out a tingling hand. "Heyyyyyya."

Delli dropped her hand, and was prepared to go and let the rain drown her.

"Hi..." said Craig. He started to reach for a hand shake, but stopped when a bag was tearing. Ice cream - if the water stain told right. Yanking the bag to catch stuff, he asked, "You okay?" He slicked with his shoulder flyaways of his white-blond hair.

"Mhm!" Forcing a smile that was all teeth, she answered, "I am good, I'm so good. How are you?" She couldn't help cringing when a blush materialized on Craig's face; her arms crossed snug over her torso. Maybe white wasn't a good color. 

Craig managed, eyes fixed on her face, "Good, I think. Better, now that I'm home." He fished for his key. "Go ahead in, I got some towels in the dryer downstairs." He watched her, seeming to calculate the quickest solution to her drenched state. "And some old hoodies in my room, any should fit good."

What Delli meant to say next was something along the wording of "I'm dry now, got soaked on my way here, don't worry about me." This collection of words came out as jumbled and fractured as you could imagine. No matter how many times she could have retried for the correct sentence, Craig made up his mind.

"My room's after the kitchen," said he, "and you can't miss the closet." He returned the way he came, still lugging the groceries and umbrella as they were.

"Heck."

With that word, Delli had processed all the thoughts to go along with what had happened, and accepted her predicament. 

A passer's glance showed a roomy apartment, window seat of striped fabric looking out to the city. After the walk-in kitchen was the bedroom, and its own window that displayed more of the steel and brick kingdom. The bed was a twin size, blue fuzzy comforter that one would find for cheap at the local places. Same for the television and the dresser. A modest scent of drying paint hung in the air; in the three long strides to the closet, Delli had a replay of navigating an abandoned office floor, being told by security guards to keep her flashlight close, her prayers closer, and any arrogance at the elevator.

Lavender oils brought herself back to her present, perusing a rack of work shirts, more work shirts, two holiday-themed sweaters, and some hoodies. No particular pattern to the arrangement. 

"Oh, yeah, pick whichever you'd like."

Craig appeared next to her, three towels draped over his shoulder. He still was holding the umbrella by a craned neck, and the grocery bags were falling apart.

"Here, let me..." Taking the towels, Delli wrapped the groceries in one, easy work of containment. "And I'll join you when I'm ready."

Her tone left the finality, the hint that Craig probably told himself before entering. Soon as the door clicked shut behind himself, Delli dried her hair first; so the hoodie she picked wouldn't get clammy. As for her tank... it limped like a dead bug, now that her torso didn't shape it.

Where would she put it? Not here, that would have been weird.

"Craig? You have a shower rod where I can hang the shirt?

His answer was something she couldn't make out through the door, so she fed her arms through the sleeves and nudged herself out. The insides were fluffy, and at once she felt herself warming. Her then-drenched skin was cool, and embraced every touch of heat stronger than itself.

Craig was at a stove, boiling water. Flipping a switch, a light isolated themselves in this island of a kitchen. Even the brown, smaller tiles ended a few inches after the counter, the hall's white ones elsewhere from here.

"Hey there." He didn't look from his work. "So... hi." Even so, his was the smile of sweetness, of welcoming home.

Delli's body tingled. She smiled back.

Craig smiled more, looking to her now.

Delli giggled.

"Oh, um," said Craig, "Go get yourself a seat, it will take a bit for the pasta to cook."

Three chairs, like tossed dice, took random places on the floor space. A stool, flowery cushion on top; bean bag chair, plain and black; and an office chair in varying greys, and not a tear of age. It was a general motion in which he waved to them.

"You sure? I could help with dinner."

"I got it. You're in my place, so... I should serve you."

"Oh." Delli smirked, sidling next to him. "A cutie and a princely figure. How lucky am I?"

Her mouth betrayed her brain; Craig squeaked, exactly as mouse-like as you could guess, and he fumbled, dropping the pasta box. Delli swooped, catching and delivering it back to her friend's hand.

He stammered a thanks, breaking the cardboard seal. 

Delli nodded, and looked over the other groceries. As she guessed, ice cream. And tomato sauce and grated parmesan cheese and ground beef. Meatballs, perhaps. "Serious, I can help. You can serve me and also get dinner ready in quick time. Plus," she added, taking the beef, "this means we can actually hang out."

"Oh." The true smile returned, slow and shy. "That makes sense."

A simple meal was planned, Craig told her. Then apologized for, which Delli waved off. Simple was good. Simple meant a home, normality, the passage of every day time. On the road, she was used to carbo-loading, never steady as to what would unfold that day, whether an exhaustive search or a feisty battle.

No... simple was good.

Craig had saved a recipe for the pasta sauce: sweet basil leaf, tomato chunks, and optional cheese for a smooth crackle of flavor. His job of being to cook the pasta, Delli had the work of mushing the beef and kneading in the herbs, and getting the balled morsels in the oven. Their island of a kitchen meant bumping into each other, brushing elbows, and tangling their feet on their passes. Delli, her van as experience, was used to maneuvering narrow spaces; two people in the same, narrow isle got irritating fast - irritation at herself, at her fidgety hands in need of the pace that could keep up with her dynamite thoughts.

One horrid encounter of an opening cabinet kissing her forehead, and the string of apologies that followed, told her maybe he had a similar itch.

A distraction perhaps? Delli asked about the radio, or rather if he had one. When he confirmed, she tuned to a station of high-energy swing jazz, and tapped around Craig, who seemed cheered by that. The air cleared itself in no time. Great ideas bloomed from the fun - such as, for Craig, to call out when he was opening the cabinet again. Or for Delli to have the one-time excuse to yell, "I got a kniiiife!"

But, really, she told him when she was right behind him. It saved her from a boiling bath when Craig was about to move the pot to the sink.

The meatballs came out crispy, singed savory brown at the tippity top, and the pasta was stringy and firm, as all good spaghetti would be. As for the sauce... well, the stew-like texture a deep, freckled red alone couldn't judge quality of flavor.

And as they prepared their plates, this date looked to be in recovering grace (even as the tank top dripped over Delli's shoulder, because she forgot it was there). Good food, fun together, wholesome company, fuzzy hoodie, and a delightful dinner ahead.

And then the power went out.

No more music, no more light.

"Shit," said Delli and Craig in two different heartbeats.

Craig said, "Hold on, I got it," and Delli saw his shape fumble about, opening and shutting drawers, and striking a match and putting it to a wick. She assisted, gathering more candles. "Ahh, better." Then, light under his face and (what Delli thought was an attempt at) a smooth voice, he offered, "Candlelight dinner, miss?"

"I've always wanted to try this out," Delli cheered. She cleared her throat. "Thank you much. Erm, sir."

A bow of himself, and he placed the candles about, the border of their little kitchen island. Because there was no table, they ate at the counter. Craig made clear his preference to stand so Delli could have the stool, rest her feet. Though it made more sense the other way around; the heel and the ball knew the long hours of standing in place and enduring all of her weight, whereas that office chair must have been for more than flaunting that he could afford one. Surely it had to be.

He took none of her insisting this time, diverting by asking, "Your forehead okay? Do you need any ice?"

It throbbed, and probably got that green-purple-brown hue by now. When Craig touched the spot, pressure and an itch, and a fleeting tingle, were left there.

"Mhm," she confirmed. "No ice needed, though. Only star-" she stammered "-only star I'm seeing is right in front of me."

What a cacophony of tomfoolery going on behind her skull.

Craig made a weak chuckle; weakened by a penetration of self defense. She'd caught him off-guard. She felt off-guard. What was she doing? If all humans she had winked at, just to obey curiosity, crumpled like card houses, why was she tormenting him? Was she doing doing this right?

"You... wow." Craig touched her hand. The fingertips were cold.

"Yeah," Delli agreed. "Wow. Sorry."

"What for? I should apologize. We're in the dark, we can't watch the movie now, and... we barely got dinner made."

"It's a great dinner."

"That's not what I mean."

She ignored that. "And it's not like you can control the electricity in here. Storms happen, right?" Stirring her pasta, she murmured, "Storms happen, and getting totally soaked happens." She bit a meatball.

"I guess," said Craig. "At least we have a candlelight dinner."

There we go, that was something. Delli gestured her approval, swallowed, and quipped, "My heroic charmer."

He shrugged. "I'm not very charming, Delli. That's you."

Like she wasn't made aware of this. Every meeting, every day, a new compliment about her, or one of similar wording. The writers of her books, the lesser-of-quality ones, they could only froth for the heart put into his words. She scooted herself closer, brought her plate next to his, and leaned into him, her blood buzzing under her skin as he put his arm across her shoulders. "You did see me tonight, yeah? I came in as a drenched mop."

"Oh, sorry." He picked at a meatball.

"Don't apologize, you're good- hey, no more shrugging. You are good. I will always believe that."

"Then... you're the first. Not much to expect from a coffee boy."

Couldn't protest that; only one or two faces she remembered for longer than the thirty seconds between getting her coffee and hopping back into the van and wheeling off; and by the hour of a drained cup, they were the same shapeless blurs.

"Alright. Well-"

On the next floor up, someone shambled and subsequently tripped with the clumsiest thud that shook the light bulb, and some ceiling dust that sprinkled on the office chair.

"Gee, that guy could use some candles."

Craig barked a laugh.

The moment passed. "So yeah, if you could be something else, Craig, what do you think you would be?"

Craig muttered something about not being very imaginative, either.

"Craaa-aaaig."

"Alright, alright. Um... I don't know. But I know, anything but coffee runs. Some position at my job where I'd be respected, and thanked for my hard work. Like Clementine! No, not- no. I don't want to be a terror to my coworkers. Something that would mean something to me, and not at somebody else's expense."

Bad coworkers. Obnoxious bosses. Mistreatment on the field. Faithlessness. Though not entirely foreign, still unfamiliar. Inside the walls of home base or her van, respect was an essential. The rules were bendable on the outside, and she found herself at the mercy of citizens who were reasonably angry, and endangered, and confused as to why and by what were they threatened. Delli smelled the salt from these three inches apart.

"Clementine really does suck, huh?" Not the first time she heard this name, and not in the jolly spirit of a trusted friend 'til the end.

"She's a bitch," Craig confirmed. "It's not enough that she has to flaunt her promotions at me. Or go around telling everyone my mistakes. And the least she could do is order a simple coffee." Pretending to nudge on some glasses, he droned, "Six flavor shots, and three of those have to be caramel, also get me extra foam, and 'not a degree under scalding, it'll get cold if you don't run back, and don't forget the stirrer-' sorry. I should stop." He remembered himself, and poked the same meatball before actually eating it.

"No, you're fine. You-" She didn't want him to stop. She wanted to listen more, and to know more of this soul made to keep quiet under a paycheck. "What else?"

"About Clementine?"

"About," Delli said, "whatever you want to tell me."

Craig turned to the window, silent as he watched the rain batter the pane, a finger of lightning stab the clouds. He said, "If I still couldn't get a place where people would respect me, it would be nice to try for -" here he stammered, until Delli treated his hand to a weak squeeze "- maybe working from home? But not here, I'd want to be out somewhere with more sun, more greens no smoke or smog or noise. I could buy my own cabin! And- and dig out a garden to make it look pretty. Also, computers. I'd need those for my work. But yeah, I could choose my own hours! And not get pushed around. I could be happy. And- and maybe if things got really good, have three kids some day. It would be a great life to settle to."

Delli laughed. "Three kids?"

"Oh. You think that's too many?"

"No no no no. Go on, please." She put her knees to her chest, leaned in like the inquisitive owl. "Kids are great. And I love log cabins. Nice wintery aesthetic."

Craig, encouraged, continued. "Three might be right. Numbers-wise. Enough that I could love them all, but also, if they got tired of me, they could play with one other. And rely on one other. I bet they'd love the clean air, and all the space to explore."

As he spoke, his hands moved and gestured, all his energy, a time ago denied too long, unleashed. What joy, what hopefulness, found in but listening. Not glamorous for herself, talking with her hands; it felt like jabbering when the facts had to be shanked to the short, and with a stone face. Coming from Craig, nothing but charm. All the charm he acknowledged little of. He was open to her.

"And after I get off work," he stammered as faster he spoke, "or on my weekends, I could go explore with them. Or go camping! And make up stories at darkest night. But not real scary ones. Those might give them nightmares. But I'd love them, no matter how they grew up."

It was a good wish. It was enchanting and of the peace of the wanderer, a kind of life Delli could picture happening to a villager out on an island that was all their own. A small part had joined them in the apartment, at the island counter, alone and at peace, no parasitical stragglers allowed in. Craig had something truly wonderful to look forward to. 

Yet, too soon after it rose, the dream crashed; not sudden as a crash, but something more like a retreat from battle which was almost won. Back into nothing it fled with a whimper, three syllables of, "If I could."

"But here I am," he said. "Probably as stuck here as you are." Poking his pasta, he looked into one of the candles, stared at the flame that danced to every puff of his and Delli's nostrils.

"What do you mean you're stuck here?" Delli asked. "You can leave; I can't, without blowing up." That was the thing about proximity entrapments: not nearly as easy to beat as real life was. 

"I mean... sure. I can walk out of the city and see what's outside of it," Craig answered. "But I'd have to come back if I wanted a place to sleep, or food to eat. As I recall, you're looking for a job for the exact same reason." He frowned. "At least you can leave as soon as your guys figure things out, get this curse off so you don't have to put up with us normal folk."

Delli squinted. "Where's the normal, though?"

The faces cycled in her mind's eye; a child managing her own lemonade stand in the lobby, and was much more clever than the adults acknowledged, or were themselves; a lady hosting a radio show about the oddities abound, someone Delli was positive was part caribou; the man who could turn into a cat when he thought she wasn't looking; the two neighboring families that may as well have been of but one, all as jovial as a village in the holidays; the lady who ran between cafe jobs, whose face, youthful yet of constant tiredness, Delli saw stare back at her when she knew she was alone. What was "normal"?

"You know what I mean," Craig muttered.

"Do I?" challenged Delli.

"You can go anywhere you want and not have to worry about anything at all."

"Not true, I go where my guild tells me, and I always worry about something-" she hissed the hard "S" "- like if I'm going to get bitten by another jackalope-wendigo time-space beast, or have a stakeout mission in a boring suburb town!"

"Right, Delli. Right." Rolling his eyes, he heaved a breath that took out the one flame between them - the remaining candles made a spiral, and cast unsettling shadows at the front of themselves like they both had landed face-down in mud. "Because standing in one boring place you can soon leave behind is terrible. Because getting to wait and think and breathe easy on your own time is worrying."

"Craig?"

"Because having your ears ring from all the yelling over a coffee gone cold, or made wrong, or being completely forgotten, and hearing all the time of coworkers at the jobs that you can't have - that a boss won't care to give you - can't possibly be worse than- than stakeouts." Leaving Delli, he grabbed the back of the office chair, dragged it next to her, and finally sat. 

Delli's ears burned, and her chin dipped so she could stare into her food instead. "I..."

"I" what? What could be said?

Half of one meatball stuck on the fork, another untouched, pasta sauce slathered on four mouthfuls of spaghetti left. The grease had started to pool, trickling to the plate's rim.

"What I meant was," she said, cautious, "you could go anywhere, too. You can make that wish happen. That's all."

She met his eyes. And he was watching back.

Then he took another deep huff of air, and took the extinguished candle, relighting it. Melted wax dribbled one drop free, onto his hand, and he recoiled. Delli caught that candle for him. "It isn't that easy," he answered, rubbing the burn spot. "I can't. Not the way you're saying. I can't jump from a boring coffee boy to a... a country guy in my own cabin. Crawl, maybe, but not jump. I'm here, and I'm stuck. And nothing is going to change. Not like how you can ditch one place and go to another."

Attention to the candle, Delli sought for what she could ask, what wouldn't be idiotic. She couldn't think of one.

So she was relieved when he elaborated, "You need to be born lucky. And then you need luck to follow you your whole life long, so that you're noticed, and showered with all the things you deserve. Or do not." Fidgeting in his chair, his hand went to his neck, then to the candle, and to his other hand before deciding on both to stay on the counter, balled and thumbs clenched. He looked at Delli.

Wiser, and reading the thought to come, she said, "Except that doesn't happen to anyone." Craig nodded. "It happens to barely anyone." Another nod. "It happens to people like Clementine, right?"

"And to you," Craig whispered.

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm-" She swallowed dry nothing. "The guild has been my entire life. Literally, I think I was there since born. Maybe before that. But I'm not special." Silencing Craig with a hand raised, she explained, "I was trained for where I am. Same as any other baby raised there, whom they could have chosen instead. What they wanted was the best instrument of their means. And when it was time to play eenie-meenie-miney-mo, it was me they happened to point at. Um, I guess that counts as luck. But it's not entirely what you say. I travel. I investigate. I fight. I aid. I obey. None of that comes in my exact will." Shrugging, she said, "The thing is that I don't have the desire to protest much of it. So it probably does sound like the best dream."

"Oh," said Craig. "So then, you understand why I can't ditch my life for your kind?"

Delli hesitated. "No."

"Oh," Craig repeated.

"But," said Delli, "I would like to."

"You do?"

"Yeah." She forced a smile. It went away. "I'm sorry I didn't listen."

Craig shrugged. "You had been listening so far. Probably good that there was some point when you stopped." Chuckling weakly, he poked her.

Poking back, she said, "Guess so."

"Is it bad that I still wish you weren't stuck here?"

"Not really? But I think I would rather be stuck here with you." Nudging across her plate her last meatball, onto Craig's, she twirled the remaining spaghetti, which had become cold (this she minded as much as she minded not understanding Craig's life situation). "You're the best part of it, Craig."

And she smiled, a real smile that was wonderfully returned. Agreement passing between them without word, they worked to finish their meal.

Neither was aware. Of course, their plates were so close together, rims touching by an atom's space, and of course their forks clinked and turned in such a way of mindless contentment. One of these strands wound itself on both of their plates by this.

Each thought it belonged to their own.

And so the pick-up, and the pull of their heads to close the empty space, it was inevitable; their lips came together. Hearts picked up the speed of the lighting that crashed outside, and the heat that matched the point of contact that a bolt would leave on the damp earth, and, especially left behind, the suddenness, that jolt of fright.

Craig moved so fast his chair rolled with the motion. Delli, she sat upright, stiff as a model hand.

The moment broke with Craig, his cheeks the red of the dribbled tomato sauce's gravy, stammering an apology, struggling over the syllables. Until Delli rose and pecked her damp lips on the one cheek. Amusement and more of that delight a part of her, she laughed, laughed so hard that it tickled her soul and she had to hug her sides, that Craig couldn't fight the infection and joined her.

They cleared the counter and washed dishes, put leftovers away. Puffing out the candles, all but one to take with, Craig led Delli through the hall, back to his room, promising a laptop with a full battery for the movie-watching part of their date. They forgot the ice cream after all, but that pasta had been a filling meal.

And such a promise seemed to matter little, for when they had divined how to comfortably fit the both of themselves on the twin-size bed (it was another bout of giggles towards Craig's shyly-made suggestion of cuddling close if Delli didn't want to lay side-across) the lights in the hall flickered, and a great clank of the air conditioning, revived, came loud as the weather. Craig checked by flipping the switch; the bedroom lit.

"Huh," said Craig, and he extinguished the last candle.

"Guess we have to cuddle now, if we're going to watch on the TV," said Delli.

Looking between the television and the laptop, Craig answered, "If the small screen doesn't bother you."

Not at all. She minded as much as she minded cold pasta during a candlelight dinner.

Indeed worthy of cuddling, perhaps of spooning, their position settled on their being side by side. Delli's arm across Craig's shoulders, Craig's arm around her torso, and ankles of both intertwined as an anchor. They leaned into each other. Craig's ears were warm against Delli's neck. The hands not in use of keeping close met in the middle; simply holding, simply feeling. The television light left shadows dancing across their faces.

Delli heard Craig breathe a deep sigh, part chuckle, as his thumb traced the wrinkles on her palm. Warm touch, soft fingertips - things without grooves or edges must have passed his fingers many times in the long hours of coffee, disrespect, and loneliness.

No more.

She turned and shifted, enough to touch his forehead, and planted her kiss there.

She didn't have to, didn't want to, break the moment to ask if he understood. Maybe he didn't, and that was okay.

The warmth of his hands was nothing. Nothing to equal this. First it came to her head; then her veins delivered this bubbly sweetness to all of her body, down to the fingertips and toes, up to the scalp.

Maybe it would follow her into her dreams. 

But he was here, right now and right here. And, as his hand continued to stroke her palm, her eyelids drooped, and she decided she didn't need a silly sensation to dream of him. 

This was the dream.

They were dreaming, together, and would wake to a beautiful reality.

She belonged here.


End file.
